


On the Subject of the Haggis

by mydwynter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Burns Supper, Companionable Snark, First Kiss, First Time, Flirting, Food, Kissing, M/M, Music, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Romantic Gestures, Sexual Tension, Snogging, burns night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:04:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydwynter/pseuds/mydwynter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Some hae meat and cannot eat, blah blah. You know. It's the 25th. Isn't that what your family does?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>John's brain slipped repeatedly as it tried to turn over this concept. "You're planning a Burns Night?"</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"Have planned, John. And already executed. Obviously." Sherlock gestured at the display in the kitchen.</i>
</p><p>It began a long and sonsie night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Subject of the Haggis

**Author's Note:**

> Begun as an experiment to pair with [Claimed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/626523) but almost immediately spun into something else entirely. No haggis for me, thanks. I'll stick with the atholl brose.
> 
> Betaed by the kind Mazarin221B.

The interior of the fridge was a sea of masking tape and marker pen. Nearly every item that John had bought that morning was labelled with an unambiguous, uppercase “DO NOT EAT.” Sure. Because John had purchased the food for decorative purposes only. What had the sod done now?

John slammed the refrigerator door. Hard.

"SHERLOCK," he yelled, and stomped his way into the lounge, expecting to find his flatmate hanging off the edge of the sofa and texting like a teenaged girl, dragging his hair in the dust on the floor. However, the room was empty. John deliberated for a moment, then stepped over the puddle of Sherlock's coat and began a systematic search of the house; he'd just leave the issue alone, but curiosity killed the cat and John didn't want to give Sherlock tacit permission to commandeer the kitchen.

"Sherlock?" His bedroom was empty, as was the bath. He wasn't anywhere in the stairwell, or at Mrs. Hudson's, so that left upstairs. But why would Sherlock be up in John's bedroom? And why so silent?

John resisted the urge to creep up the stairs, so the eighth step groaned loudly as he ascended. His bedroom light was on but the room was empty, and laid open on top of the duvet was John's one photo album. He wandered over to see staring up at him four photographs of John's childhood, the round-cornered slight-sepia of the late seventies.

John's brow furrowed. Why those pictures? And where the hell had Sherlock got to? The feline bastard had left without John hearing a thing.

`Where did you go?` he texted, then went back downstairs while he waited for a reply that never came. John fixed himself some lunch then left for a shift at the clinic, still mulling over the mystery of Sherlock's sudden disappearance.

When he returned home, John began to trudge wearily up the stairs but stopped halfway, sniffing. A familiar smell prickled in the back of his mind, and his brain was still racing to place it when Sherlock threw open the door at the top of the stairs and bustled John into the lounge.

"Hurry. I forgot you had a shift tonight. Things are getting cold," he said, stripping John of his jacket and tossing it onto the sofa. 

"Sherlock," John said confusedly as Sherlock took John's hands in his own and peeled off his gloves. "Sherlock." He was steered into the kitchen, but dug in his heels at the sight that greeted him.

Sherlock had cleaned. Well, he'd cleaned, and then somehow cluttered everything up again. Instead of experiments the table was laden with dishes of food, candles and a rather conspicuous (and rather expensive) bottle of scotch.

"What's this?" John said, quirking his head at Sherlock. "Things are getting cold?"

"The two kinds of mash have been hell to keep warm," Sherlock says. "I don't want them to dry out."

John blinked. "Mash?"

"Some hae meat and cannot eat, blah blah. You know. It's the 25th. Isn't that what your family does?"

John's brain slipped repeatedly as it tried to turn over this concept. "You're planning a Burns Night?"

"Have planned, John. And already executed. Obviously." Sherlock gestured at the display in the kitchen.

"You… Huh." John blinked down at the giant haggis that the two of them wouldn't been able to finish in a week, even if John had _liked_ haggis.

"Aren't you pleased?"

John looked up to see Sherlock's beaming face, waiting in childlike expectation of John's delight. "It's…wow, Sherlock." His stomach sunk into his shoes; he'd always dreaded Burns Nights as a child. A supper he couldn't stand, a dinner party with no other children apart from Harry, being sent to bed early so the adults could sit up together and leave the lounge reeking of scotch, his mother on her worst behaviour and her father scrambling embarrassedly to cover for her drunken antics. No, John thought, he wasn't especially pleased at all. But how often did Sherlock make any effort at all for someone other than himself, never mind a surprise as difficult to compass as this? John swallowed hard.

"You hate it," Sherlock said quietly, his face falling. "What did I miss? I looked at your album, and you looked happy in that photo from when you were nine."

His heart squeezing painfully in his chest, John shrugged. "I think they'd just fed us a sugary pudding and released Harry and me to go play in the other room," he said.

Sherlock swept past him and starting gathering up dishes and dumping them in a pile on the worktop. "Forget it, then," he said dismissively. "Forget it. You're probably tired anyway. Go on upstairs. I'll bring you some tea after I finish…getting rid of this mess. Forget it."

"Sherlock," John said quietly, watching the stiffness of his movements. Sherlock ignored him and started blowing out all the candles. "Sherlock."

"Forget about it, John," Sherlock said, flipping on the bright kitchen lights, leaving John stunned and blinking in adjustment.

"Sherlock." John finally entered the room and physically stilled Sherlock's movements. "Stop." He stared at Sherlock’s face, turned away and eyes flicking all over the kitchen, probably cataloguing how to most efficiently wipe the entire night from existence, and then John reached up to grab Sherlock by the chin and make him meet John’s eyes. Sherlock startled at the touch. "Stop," John said.

Sherlock swallowed. "I have."

Only at the last minute did John restrain himself from stroking Sherlock's cheek, an intimacy of touch they’d never had before. He wondered briefly at the impulse. "Sherlock, this was a really sweet gesture."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock spat. "You hate haggis, you dislike Burns Night, and I was stupid to proceed without all the evidence."

"I still appreciate the effort," John said. "Did you cook?"

"Mashed potatoes and turnips are hardly cooking, John."

"And you pulled it all together, and cleaned the kitchen, and found the largest damn haggis I've ever seen." John couldn't keep the smile from his voice, and his stomach unclenched to see humour quirking the corners of Sherlock's mouth.

"Maybe we can feed it to Mrs. Hudson."

"Or experiment on it," John joked. Sherlock's expression indicated that he hadn't even thought about that option, which John found hilarious. He started chuckling, and Sherlock joined in. They ended up both leaning against the worktop shoulder to shoulder, sighing. The warmth that bled through Sherlock's shirt was comforting. "Were you going to read the poem?" John asked.

"And play you some songs," Sherlock said.

John crossed his arms in front of his chest and canted his head to look at him. "You learned songs?"

Sherlock shrugged and bumped John's elbow. "A handful of fiddle tunes."

Something warm blossomed in John's chest. “And this is why you didn’t want me to eat the food in the fridge?”

“It would spoil your appetite.”

“I do eat more than once a day, you’re aware?”

Sherlock shrugged like a sulky teenager, and John felt the urge to hug him. Instead he went to the table and piled mash and broccoli on two plates.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock said.

" _Obvious_ ," John smirked at him. "Grab the bottle." And he took the plates into the lounge, Sherlock following. As Sherlock splashed scotch into their glasses with uncharacteristic silence, John plugged in the fairy lights which still hung over the mantel from Christmas. He turned around to find Sherlock standing awkwardly near the coffee table, staring down at the scotch and their small dinners. He reached around him, stifling the urge to touch Sherlock as he did so, grabbed a glass and a plate, then settled himself down in his chair. Hesitantly Sherlock followed his example, and they ate supper off their laps by the light of the fire and the fairy lights.

"These are…really good," John said around a mouthful of mash, breaking the silence.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Are you honestly surprised?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact." John smirked, and added. "I suppose I can see a bit of Heston in your methods whenever you deign to cook."

"…Who?"

"Never mind." John was contemplating getting seconds when Sherlock set aside his plate and went to the window with his violin. He tapped his bow against his lip for a few moments before launching into a medium-tempo something, a song that leaped and soared and jumped from octave to octave. John's fork halted halfway to his mouth and stayed there as the music transported him, the melody carrying him off somewhere far away from 221B. When the song ended, silence sat heavy around them for a few moments before John spoke. "What was that?"

" _The Buzzard._ "

"It was beautiful."

"It's my favourite," Sherlock said quietly, still staring out the window.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. Then, "Will you…play another?"

With a tilt of his head, Sherlock spun on his heel and went into a quick piece, stamping and double-stopping and letting out a rhythmic series of yips toward the end that made John throw back his head with laughter. Sherlock's eyes shone. He got into John's face and waggled his head as he finished up, and the silliness of his performance was so ridiculous John almost couldn't breathe.

John grinned, panting for air, as Sherlock segued seamlessly from his jauntiness into an aching, heart-wrenching tune. John's smile faded. From across the room Sherlock stared at him, pinning him to the back of the chair with line after line of melancholic music, stealing his breath with every draw of the bow. John's mouth went dry. He mindlessly gulped what was in his glass, coughed at the keen burn of the whisky, and fled to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water to soothe his throat. John leaned on the worktop . Behind him, Sherlock still played. John’s heart pounded rapidly through his veins; he could feel the heaviness throbbing in his palms where they pressed against the laminate. He took a deep breath, sipped the water, and wandered back into the lounge.

John stopped in the centre of the room to watch Sherlock play, watching him over the glass as he rocked and swayed with the song. He felt compelled to approach Sherlock for some reason, found himself being reeled in almost unconsciously until they stood barely three feet from each other. From this distance Sherlock's eyes burned even more brightly. The combination of firelight and diffuse fairy light caught him sideways and haloed his hair, sparked in his eyes, made him look an ethereal creature of flame and shadow. John couldn't stop staring. The melody wound round his heart and squeezed, and Sherlock stared back.

The song came to an end. "Why did you do all this?" John heard himself asking as Sherlock let the violin and bow fall gently to his sides.

"For you," Sherlock said.

"Why?"

"I wanted to make you happy."

"Why?"

Something in the atmosphere was messing with their heads, certainly, because they were both standing well within each others' personal space with no sign of moving away—John didn't feel like moving away, that was for certain. He stepped even closer, and Sherlock placed the instrument on their desk.

"What are you doing?" John murmured.

"What are _you_ doing?"

"I…don't know."

"I didn't plan this."

"Didn't you?"

"You did this," Sherlock whispered, his head slowly lowering toward John. "Bringing us in here. This…I only planned dinner."

"And the scotch. And the private concert."

"More than the sum of their parts, maybe."

John could feel Sherlock's breath on his lips. Any moment now one of them would wake up and jump back. Any moment now. 

Compelled by fairy lights and music and scotch, their mouths touched. Everything held its breath.

Then Sherlock whimpered, and they both snapped into motion. John felt Sherlock's mouth open under his, and it was warm and wet and good—so incredibly good—that John's knees went a bit weak. He felt Sherlock's hands tighten around his waist, pulling him in, felt Sherlock’s shaking breath on his cheek, and he moaned. How did this feel so fucking good? He grabbed Sherlock between the shoulderblades and fisted his hands in his shirt, clutching him closer, overwhelmed by a bloom of satisfaction and affection and desire that rolled his eyes back and curled his toes.

With a tiny noise in his throat Sherlock shoved both hands into John's hair, then tilted his head to deepen the kiss. John groaned as pleasure sparked white in his vision. He dug his fingers into Sherlock's back and pressed their bodies together from chest to knee. 

Any moment now John would stop this and question it. Any moment now.

Sherlock's hands cupped John's face and breathed against his mouth. " _John_." 

John shivered. "Jesus christ."

"Don't stop." Sherlock's voice was rough, and something about it brought John's skin out in gooseflesh. 

He dove in for more kisses, heart racing, feeling a bit delirious. "Sherlock," John rasped. His eyes flickered behind their lids. He poured himself into the kiss with a groan and only belatedly realised his hands had attached themselves to Sherlock's arse. Experimentally, he pulled Sherlock closer and they both moaned at the press of friction.

Then Sherlock walked them forward until John's calves hit the sofa, and that was, apparently, where the line was crossed. "Wait," John gasped, though his hands were still clutching at Sherlock's body. "Wait. What's going on?"

"Apparently," Sherlock said, breathing heavily against the side of John's face, "lust."

"Did you plan this?" John didn't know what definition of "lust" Sherlock was going on, but this didn't feel like any lust John was used to. It was in there, sure, but it wasn't the sole ingredient by any stretch of the imagination. Still, the strength of whatever emotion _had_ taken them rocked John to the core.

"I told you; no. I only planned dinner."

"You didn't know this was going to happen."

"Of course I did."

"Wait." John pulled back so he could blink at him. "That doesn't make sense."

"It does." Sherlock laid on the sofa and tugged at John's hand to pull him down on top. As usual, John let himself be moulded into position according to Sherlock's whim. It was less like laying on top of a sack of hammers than John had ever predicted when he'd conjured the thought in the deep, dark, secret corners of his imagination. "I just didn't know it was going to happen tonight." He pulled a face. "I've missed all manner of things lately. I must be coming down with a cold."

"You'd better not be." A warm flood of affection flowed through John's chest and down to his fingertips, so he brushed them across Sherlock's mouth, then gave in to the urge to kiss him softly. Sherlock hummed and rubbed his palms up and down John's back. "I don't want to catch anything."

"You won't mind," Sherlock said arrogantly, then smirked against John's mouth.

"Arse."

"Is that a suggestion?" Sherlock cupped John's buttocks with both hands and grinned.

Which of course, coming from that source, made John crack up. He blushed and let his head fall to press his forehead against Sherlock's cheek. "No, I can't," he giggled. "No. It's too weird."

"What is?"

"Flirting." John grinned at him, imagining in a flash of fancy that his happiness was shining out through every pore. "You flirting. Please stop."

Sherlock beamed. "No."

The expression on Sherlock's face made John's stomach flip. He took refuge by pressing his face to Sherlock's again, hiding it. "This whole situation is too weird."

"No, I told you. It was inevitable. You've been in love with me for months."

John's head snapped up to blink at him in disbelief. "I have not."

"John," Sherlock said pityingly, "of course you have. You've been patently obvious about it."

"Not to me I haven't," John frowned.

"I can't be responsible for you being as unobservant in this as you are in everything else."

"…Okay, go on."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Go on?"

"Do your thing." John waved a hand at him. "Deduce. Why do you think I've been in love with you for months. Go on. Amaze me."

Terrifying mischief lit Sherlock's eye for a moment, then he curled up and took John's earlobe into his mouth, suckling lightly, grazing his teeth over the skin. John shivered, and it stole the breath from his lungs. "Because of that," Sherlock rumbled. John's fingers curled into Sherlock's ribs. Then Sherlock ducked his head and sucked a kiss into the soft skin of John's neck, just below his ear. John gasped. "Because of that," Sherlock growled. He smeared his mouth along John's jaw and scraped his teeth on his lower lip, and John found himself groaning and actually rolling his hips against Sherlock's. "Because of that." Sherlock took John's head in both hands and kissed him thoroughly for a long minute, then when it broke gave him an extra smacking kiss for good measure. "Because of that," he murmured.

"I've got to say," John said dazedly against Sherlock's mouth, "that wasn't the most logical deduction I've ever been witness to. You're getting sloppy with that cold."

"If I continued my explanation in my bedroom would you follow me?"

John breathed and thought. "Are we ever going to talk about what's happening?"

"Is that your way of saying no?"

For a moment, John considered getting up until Sherlock took this seriously. Then he realised he didn't care. Not in the slightest. This all felt shockingly good, and John wasn't entirely convinced it was a sane idea, but when had that ever stopped him where Sherlock was concerned? "Of course I would, you idiot. I've followed you so far. What makes you think I'd stop now?" The idea that John had at some point fallen in love with this beautiful, annoying, mad wreck of a man was not out of question in the slightest, was it? This was Sherlock. It was all just a little bit inevitable.

"I just needed to be sure," Sherlock said with a sudden vulnerable cast to his features.

John swallowed heavily. "Not lust, then," he said.

"…Not only lust, no."

"You love me."

Sherlock breathed for a moment, considering his answer. When it finally came, he whispered it roughly into the air between their lips. "Desperately."

The pulse of adrenaline that shot through John knocked him sideways for a few seconds before he could recover. _Oh christ._ He screwed his eyes shut and fell upon Sherlock's mouth with a small noise, devouring him, capturing his moan and feeding on it, rocking their bodies together, grinding. Sherlock clawed at his back and shoved his slim thigh up between John's legs. John suspected he was never going to be sated again. " _God_ how did I not know."

"You're an idiot."

" _You_ were going to try and woo me with haggis."

"We're both idiots."

"That's more like it." Their kisses had taken on a frantic edge now, and John became a bit afraid he was about to be rolled onto the floor. "So what was that about your bedroom?"

"I wondered if there was a Burns Night tradition that could be celebrated in bed."

"As a child, I was often sent to bed early so the adults could party."

"That will do."

"If you make any insulting 'wee timorous beastie' jokes I reserve the right to punch you in the face."

"Noted."

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" He stopped trying to suck a deep bruise into the side of John's neck and pulled back just far enough to look into his face.

"Thank you," John whispered. "It was well done."

A smile briefly quirked the corner of Sherlock's kiss-reddened mouth before being squashed down. "I've thought of a new tradition, John."

John wordlessly raised an eyebrow.

"Two men, one bottle of scotch, no clothing."

John's smile crept across his face like the sun rising. "Let it never be said Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how to celebrate Burns Night."

"That's because I'm a genius," Sherlock said smugly.

"Sae let the lord be thankit," John smirked, and led his new love to bed.


End file.
